<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>tucked beneath a dust-swathed grimoire by fortemps (kemonomimi)</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22727185">tucked beneath a dust-swathed grimoire</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/kemonomimi/pseuds/fortemps'>fortemps (kemonomimi)</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>yekeh kha, warrior of light &amp; darkness and errand boy extraordinaire [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Final Fantasy XIV</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Au Ra Raen (Final Fantasy XIV), Au Ra Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Au Ra Xaela (Final Fantasy XIV), Bards, Brothels, Character Study, Courtesans, Drabble Collection, Duskwight Elezen, Elezen (Final Fantasy XIV), Eorzea, Eorzean Politics, Eventual Relationships, F/F, F/M, Freeform, Gen, Ishgard Politics (Final Fantasy XIV), Light BDSM, M/M, Male Miqo'te (Final Fantasy XIV), Mind Games, Multi, Multi-Classed Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Named Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Origin Story, Other, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Prostitution, Scions of the Seventh Dawn (Mentioned) - Freeform, Shameless Smut, Ul'dah (Final Fantasy XIV), Wildwood Elezen, business ventures, crafters, general mischief, implied BDSM, ishgard, no beta we die like men</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-02-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-04-28 16:40:27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,850</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/22727185</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/kemonomimi/pseuds/fortemps</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>...lay a leather-bound journal of snippets of the warrior of light's journeys, and those of the allies he meets along the way.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>yekeh kha, warrior of light &amp; darkness and errand boy extraordinaire [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1991698</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. illicit pants</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The Yellowjacket stiffens, his upper lip curling with mild contempt as ponders over the inquiry again in his mind, picking it apart piece by piece. “You… What? Is this some sort of foolish errand? Perhaps a joke at my expense?!”</p><p>The Au’Ra man tilts his head, large onyx horns nearly scraping their tapering tips against the worn leather of his harness. Wide, kohl-lined eyes look comically innocent — like a child caught with their hand in the sweets’ jar — but the harsh red glow around green irises is jarring, and the Twin Adder Captain finds himself unable to keep his gaze steady. His question is answered with a shake of the bard’s head; his ponytail whipping back and forth from the force of it.</p><p>With an exasperated sigh, the Hyur reads the slip of paper again. It looks like an ordinary notice, but the contents demand he fork over the most important emblems of the outpost to this... random adventuring bard for transport. It is against normal protocol!</p><p>But, then again, the secluded outpost from which the ridiculous request supposedly originated would perhaps have need of these articles, simply because of how distant they are from the main storehouse. Making the request out of the blue was not terribly unreasonable of them after all, the tired soldier reasons with a decisive shake of his head.</p><p>“Stay here,” he orders. “I will return with the supplies posthaste.” Without even a cursory glance back at the towering Xaela, the captain stiffly scurries off deeper into the storerooms.</p><p>—</p><p>Moments later and miles away, the truth of the matter is revealed. A cherubic face whose expression consistently teetered on the line between aloof and condescending, twists with affronted disbelief.</p><p>“You not only stole from a Twin Adder garrison under false pretenses, but <i>you made off with their entire supply of pants</i>,” she repeats, for clarity.</p><p>He chirped his affirmation, though his head tilted and shoulders shrug; he wasn’t thorough when canvassing the base, so it was possible he didn’t steal all of the pants. Surely there was a pair or two he missed tucked away in some hidden nook or cranny.</p><p>“You’re incorrigible.” She bats away one of his large hands that reach out to pet her head and soothe her temper. “I would ask why, but that would be a waste of words.”</p><p>Shika shakes her head, scowling. The expression didn’t suit her round, child-like face, but Yhul triggers her ire easily and was used to seeing her in bouts of annoyance.</p><p>“Don’t fret — I’m sure the Twin Adders will pay a pretty lump of gil to get their pants back.” A lithe form drops from the tree boughs overhead and lands gracefully among them.</p><p>“Nao’sae, you’re late,” Shika chastises, arms crossing.</p><p>“Nay, my dear; never late, only biding my time.” The dark skinned miqote’s smile is as manicured as his hair, but his eyes are hard to read behind a wall of glass. “And you should be glad I did! There was a patrol about — they’ve been ah, redirected. Sloppy, Yhul; I’ve come to expect more from you.” His ears flick with amusement.</p><p>Yhul hums, inquisitive, then sighs. Must be losing his touch.</p><p>“Let’s make this transaction quick, then, lest they return.” Shika proposes.</p><p>“Oh, not interested in camaraderie, little miss? I count only three of us present. I believe we’re missing a few of our usual members.”</p><p>Yhul’s mouth opens with an explanation, but Shika’s arm shoots straight up to block him from speaking. Her fingertips don’t quite reach until she rises up on her tiptoes, but the action draws his attention well enough to work as intended. “I have other business to which to attend, that’s all!” Emphatically, she adds, “That’s. All.”</p><p>Blinking, “As you insist,” Nao’sae allows. There is a story behind her adamant declaration, but he will not pry it out of her. Yhul Qalli easily picks on the tiny Raen woman, but Nao’sae finds it better to stay clear of her temper.</p><p>They do not wait for any of the mentioned others to arrive, using Shika’s suggestion to hurry things along. Important articles and more pants than one should ever require are piled into Nao’sae’s arms; he bares the weight gracefully, though he finds it ridiculous that articles of clothing weigh so much.</p><p>Gil is exchanged, pocketed by the bard with a peppy, sung, “Thank you! ♪” that Nao’sae has learned to appreciate. Funds are more useful in Yhul’s hands; he is nimble with his fingers, whether it be at plucking a harp or sewing as he hums to himself. Usually some money for Yhul’s arts and crafts makes its way into the pockets of the entire cast of oddly connected characters, either by gift or by trade.</p><p>“Spend it wisely,” Nao’sae cautions, just for good measure. Talented Yhul may be, but capricious enough that odd purchases are often made instead of investing in more supplies for crafting.</p><p>Shika huffs, her tail straightening with offense. “I’ll keep a close eye on him, as always.” She has taken the role of nanny-ing Yhul upon herself in his lover’s absence. “Someone has to,” she grumbles, folding her arms.</p><p>Yhul only smiles, humming his promise as the pair of Au’Ra bid their Miqo’te friend goodbye as he disappears into the shadows.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. putain</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>in the Goblet, another acquaintance earns his keep.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>He eyes the slack-jawed patron with little more than disdain, arms folding across his chest in a gesture of impatience. “If you keep gaping like an imbecile, hornets will take up residence. You heard me: strip.” Articles of clothing drop to the floor, but Coeur makes no motion towards removing his own. When the paying man’s lips part to complain, the Elezen regards him coolly and cuts him off with a dismissive wave. “You did not pay me to be nice to you – do not waste my time pretending otherwise; should you want of simpering, sweet little birds, there are an array from which to choose.”</p><p>Patron effectively silenced, Coeur removes soft silken gloves with his teeth and folds them neatly. Almost as an afterthought he plucks at the laces of his own breeches, though they stay firmly in place just below the sharp cut of his hips. He hears an intake of breath, the beginning whisper of another string of words, and he glares at the shell-shocked Miqo’te adventurer for even trying to speak without permission. “If you cannot keep yourself from speaking, I will find something to occupy your mouth instead.” At the blown-eyed, starving look he receives, he snorts and shakes his head. “You think your lips worthy of my cock? Pathetic. I will procure a gag, if I must.”</p><p>“N-No marks,” the paying adventurer warns, feigning sternness, but is met with one of Coeur’s low, humorless chuckles.</p><p>“I remember the stipulation, thank you. It would behoove you to not speak again without permission, however.” At the hesitant, disbelieving look, the Elezen rolls his eyes and spreads his splayed palms in a show of good faith. “Whips and crops are tucked away. I am not so uncouth to ignore <i>my dear patron’s</i> request.” His lips twist around the words like they’re vile, but his eyes roam with interest over the bare body before him, contrary to his dismissive tone.</p><p>“No, you came to me for one purpose alone, did you not?” When he tilts his head almost demurely, long red locks nearly brush the thigh of his folded legs. “You came to be fucked and used and discarded, as if you were the whore to whom one throws a good day’s wages.” He smiles, sharp and toothy. “Luckily for you, I find myself in a bit of a mood to entertain such notions.”</p><p>He offers a hand, the gesture a mockery of a gentleman’s, and uses it as leverage to pull the receiving party into his lap. They fall into his lap so plaint and wanton that he cradles their chin with a shred of fondness. One of his hands disappears into his pockets as he squeezes their jaw and regards his diligent patron from behind a veil of lashes. “Well, at least you are pretty,” he finally concludes. The feline in his lap visibly shivers and twitches when wicked fingers, coated in the oil from his pockets, press with intent against his pucker of a hole. Coeur is kind enough to offer him a leg to rut against, effectively giving him a way to press himself back against the cold, slick fingers.</p><p>“Have you need of it, the phrase is <i>russet popotoes</i> today.” The courtesan murmurs, crisp and professional, despite the desperate way his company rocks against him. “The phrase to get me to stop, that is.” His smirk twists, one part cruel, one part hungry when he finally presses the pad of his finger past the rim of muscles and into the tight heat. “But, I recall you saying you wanted to scream – so I suppose you will not make use of it. Anything otherwise aught amiss, this is your last moment to withdraw.”</p><p>He is one knuckle deep when he finds that magic little bundle of nerves, the one that makes his patron’s vision white and hips arch. The professional makes note of it, circling it with the tip of his nail until the Miqo’te’s ears flatten against his skull and he whines – music to Coeur’s short, tapered ears. “Such a little slut – this is only the beginning, but you are already so excited.” One hand strokes along the patron’s cock, before it squeezes cruelly at the base. “A little starveling you are!” He presses in a second finger with little preamble, fingers flexing and stretching to make room for the cock still tucked into his breeches, though growing more uncomfortable by the moment as he watches his charge fuck himself on the Elezen’s fingers.</p><p>When he withdraws his fingers to pluck out his own cock from its confines, he is deliberately slow. It’s a tease, if not outright mean, when he pays more attention towards his own cock, stroking it from tip to crown until the man in his lap wiggles and writhes with impatience. It is met with a sharp slap to the rear, only hard enough to paint the skin temporarily, and he grips a cheek just to let them relish in the sting. “A pity that you have such a stipulation in place – I quite like to paint blank canvases.”</p><p>What Coeur lacks in girth he makes up for in length, the curve of his cock arched towards his navel. He deliberately steers the head from sullying his shirt with such a base, undignified liquid that is precum, but he makes sure to spread it liberally, before fetching the vial from his pockets and dumping the contents over it.</p><p>“This is going to hurt,” he reminds the Miqo’te rocking in his lap. With an empty smile he adds, “but that’s what you want, little sparrow – isn’t it?”</p><p>It does hurt, when he finally guides his prick past stretched rim, deliberately slowly so his patron can relish in the burn of it. He is met with a dewy gaze, one he does not give the satisfaction of seeing his own pleasure in the heat that engulfs him ilm by ilm. Heavy hands guide the feline adventurer down on his cock until he is fully hilted. He allows them a moment to collect themselves, if only to deny them what they so desire. He keeps hips firmly in place, not allowing them the room to bounce or rut aimlessly. Coeur must remind him who is in charge, after all.</p><p>When he finally does remove his hands, he tucks them behind his own head, after tugging a folded ear. “Well? You sought to make use of a body, did you not? Then do it; wring your own pleasure from my prick,” he challenges in a drawl, low and rough with effort, only barely maintaining his façade of disinterest.</p><p>It is crude and bestial, the way the adventurer tries to rock in his lap. Coeur allows it, drinking in the desperate panting with a darkening gaze, until he tires of the aimless friction and takes matters into his own hands. One long-fingered palm flattens against the Miqo’te’s back when he flips them over, onto the rug beneath their feet. The movement seems like an effortless display of strength, but Coeur huffs at the change of angle, breathing against his randy customer’s hair. “You will not find what you seek that way. It seems I must take matters into his own hands.</p><p>The change of position was preordained – hence Coeur’s refusal to completely remove his own pants; as if he would allow his knees to drag against the woolen carpet. He likes to keep up pristine appearances, after all. No longer interest in cat-and-mouse games, he bends imposing over his customer and pounds into him, sure and true. A subtle shifting of hips and he’s abusing the spot he discovered in his earlier probing, grinding until the Miqo’te is begging for mercy, cock weeping against his own bare belly between them. The usurper runs a teasing thumb along the underside of the cock, pausing at the crown to push and prod at his foreskin and slit, before descending down the length again, to rub at his sack until he’s sobbing in desperation.</p><p>Coeur finds himself at his limit too, so he lies bodily against the smaller body and properly fucks him, hand heavy on the previously neglected cock until his patron gives out in three short spurts of white and a scream. With a flick of his wrist he has the Miqo’te trembling, overly sensitive and riding the toppling of climax, but the Elezen isn’t done with him yet – not until he feels the heat at the base of his spine curl and seize him. He withdraws, earning a whimper that goes ignored, and comes across the esteemed customer’s belly. No physical marks was the stipulation – but Coeur the Usurper has always been one to poke and prod at loopholes.</p><p>His patron will still have to wash away the traces of him left behind before he returns home, just as Coeur planned. He still leaves his mark, in one form or another.</p><p>When the Elezen finds his legs sturdy enough to stand, he does so with grace. Absently he offers a hand to his dazed patron, heaving them to their feet. He gathers abandoned clothing too, piling them in the adventurer’s arms before he tucks his own cock back into his pants and re-laces the drawstrings.</p><p>“And just what do you think you are doing?” A brow arches when the customer starts to slide into his clothes, or at least try to make himself presentable enough for the walk of shame from Coeur’s parlor into the main hall of the brothel. “My room is not a dressing room; we’re done, so leave.”</p><p>His patron swallows, hard, but the swing of his tail belies the pleasure of the humiliating, voyeuristic demand. With a hand against his warm, carpet-burned, pink flushed back, Coeur ejects him from the room.</p><p>Alone, Coeur finally genuinely smiles. Too bad he didn’t bother to learn his guest’s name, but in all likelihood, they would return to him again. And he would provide again, ever the addictive vice; such was the cycle of courtesans and the hedonism they wrought.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>introducing my warrior of light's crew slowly and surely.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. teatime</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>two most infuriating characters establish a connection.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“And to what should I attribute this visit?” Coeur the Usurper asks over the thin veil of stream curling over his cup. “Business, or <i>pleasure?</i>” The way his mouth twists around the word, it is almost like he is not a courtesan entertaining a wealthy potential patron over tea.</p><p>Nao’sae Elakha’s grin is too sharp to be sincere, a peek of fangs at each respective corner. “If I want of company, I find my bed quite full, thank you.” He says it because he wants to see the twitch in Coeur’s brow. How one can hold oneself so highly they think none are their equal and be irritated toward rejection, Nao’sae doesn’t know. But, he does find it amusing.</p><p>“Business, then,” concludes the Elezen crisply, taking a sip of his tea after unfolding and refolding his legs.</p><p>A tell at a triple-triad table to be sure. Nao’sae capitalizes on it and lets him stew in his own curiosity until it invokes an annoyed sigh before he confirms, “Yes, business. I’ve ahh – heard from a little sparrow that you find your current accommodations… lacking.” The Miqo’te traces his finger around the rim of his cup, waiting for it to cool. He has no love for hot drinks, but diplomacy is apparently suited to them nonetheless.</p><p>“Ah, perhaps I should go bird-hunting, then.” He smiles thinly, leaning back in his chair as if to make himself comfortable, but the tension of his grip on his cup is something Nao’sae notices and pretends otherwise.</p><p>Nao’sae continues as he does not hear the interjection. “I believe I might be… inclined to find ones better suited to your tastes.”</p><p>The Elezen snorts dismissively. Unless it is a throne and a crown red from the blood of those who cast him away, it will not be ‘suited to his tastes.’ But he does arch a brow with intrigue, and watches the rhythmic slide of sharped black nails around the rim of his fine porcelain teacups. “Continue; I’ll pretend to be interested.”</p><p>Nao’sae looks much like a coeurl left run of the larder, enough to be insufferable if Coeur’s narrowed eyes are any indication of his stormy mood. “We share some similarities, do we not? We are both philanthropists, if you would.”</p><p>Coeur has a scathing remark about the origin of Nao’sae’s coffers on the tip of his tongue, but he nods his head slightly, allowing them to momentarily be reduced to the same level.</p><p>“I quite like a good investment,” Nao’sae hums, finally taking a sip of the tea once it no longer burns the roof of his mouth. “This brothel has never quite suited a man of your caliber,” he flatters, if only to relax Coeur into his proposition, “I think I might know of someone who mayhap run a more… refined bordello.”</p><p>“Surely you jest.” The pretense of civility is dropped momentarily by the flat remark, teacup coming to rest a little too roughly in its matching saucer.</p><p>“Nay.” Nao’sae looks outright smug, curling a hand around his cup to conceal the smirk that tugs on his lips. “An interesting proposition, is it not?” He doesn’t give Coeur the space to answer. “Of course the plans are still being drawn. It is but a mere hypothetical scenario to consider. Someone of your experience would not be tempted into shaky agreements, hm?”</p><p>Coeur answers him with silence, one loafer tapping anxiously against the plush rug carpet.</p><p>“I just thought it keen to make you aware of such plans.” Nao’sae concludes with a final sip of his tea, emptying the cup entirely of its contents. “I don’t expect you to play your hand now, of course. Certain accommodations must already be in place for such an asset as yourself, yes?”</p><p>Coeur knows Nao’sae is intentionally mocking him beneath his veneer of manners, but he chews the inside of his cheek anyway lest he say something before he thinks carefully about how to phrase it.</p><p>“Perhaps… if such plans were to come to fruition, I would be willing to….invest.” He gets it out between gritted teeth. He doesn’t like the feeling of being trapped beneath the dark-haired Miqo’te’s paw, nor discussing such plans where the possibility that they be overheard is not completely impossible. “If you have aught concerns besides the matter, then leave.”</p><p>There is entirely too much teeth in the dark cat’s smile then, well past the point of bemusement. It is for Coeur’s fragile ego that he reins in his laughter to but a small shake of his shoulders. “I have overstayed my welcome, it seems.” He stands, scooting his chair back from the table with the purpose of hearing the scrape and watching Coeur’s façade sour. “You know where to find me.”</p><p>Perhaps Coeur doesn’t, but he does know how to reach Nao’sae – an annoying, tittering little bird of a bard, but perhaps not entirely too bad of a connection to count among the cards Coeur keeps up his sleeves.</p><p>He’ll keep the offer in mind.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. striking the match</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>even the most sour of grapes begin growing on the vine.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>the origin of the usurper before his venture into the incense-laden, silk-swathed belly of the beast.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>His father scrapped snow from the pathways for a living, and his mother was a scullery cook. That they crossed paths was not terribly strange; Hyur and Elezen alike lived in the Brumes, both choking on the same smoke and soot and cold winter air.</p><p>There was no nobility there, no care for those who lived beneath the towering city. Sure, the blue bastard tried to keep order and strictly punished disorderly conduct, but he couldn’t micromanage every temple knight under his command.</p><p>Coeur’s mother was not completely sure who his biological father really was, despite her loving and loyal relationship to the man Coeur was to assume and call his father. He towered like his mother, had her short, tapered ears too — there was no proof of his dark-bearded, dark-eyes, sickly pale father in his appearance. Those were thoughts whispered after his father and mother stumbled home smelling of ale and soot, when his parents thought Coeur was asleep beneath a thread-bare blanket -- talk of a past his mother abandoned just before Coeur’s father slipped a ring on her finger.</p><p>He had always wondered from whom he received his glass-sharp blue eyes. Sometimes he would spy blue-eyed knights stumble into the Brume after a night of drinking in the Forgotten Knight, sometimes blue-eyed nobility paying for the company and silence of an alley wench between the stone crevices. Maybe it was better not to know.</p><p>Ishgard was a cruel place to those without the luxury of a stoked fireplace within warm, extravagantly built homes. Coeur learned that early, when he was of age and could find little. Most men and women seeking to escape the Brume chased the dream of knighthood. For Coeur, the glory of combat had never been appealing. Pledging his loyalty to Ishgard — or even worse, some noble’s blood and kin — was simply out of the question.</p><p>One day he witnessed it — the burning of an orphanage that had long stood behind the safety of the Brume’s walls, and the silhouette of long ornate robes tucked in the dark of the alley, blue and white in the flickering light from tongues of fire.</p><p>What an oddly appealing way of erasing one’s past, he thought, when he caught a glimpse of the Heavens Ward procession and the same long robe through the city towards the innermost, forbidden halls of the Vault. Secrets and unpleasant memories left smoldering in ash... — and for the first time he wondered what would happen if Ishgard was to catch fire and burn.</p><p>Maybe those wyrms had the right idea.</p><p>The Church sometimes took in bright street rats like himself — those too clever to be left in the dirty streets, lest they stir up trouble there or those with brilliant minds but sickly constitutions. But Coeur found the uniform drab and the old, dusty books of scripture and history boring. The sons of nobility paraded themselves like peacocks there, pretending to hold superiority, despite their families not having a place for them in the hierarchy of the home and thrusting them into a future of a clergy instead. Coeur almost felt an inkling of pity for them.</p><p>He was a threat by the time he had grown tall and his hair long. He was charismatic and frank with the forgotten youth of the Brume. He, of course, considered himself on a different pedestal than them — those so easily manipulated into small riots, into stolen firewood and fleet footwork with a noble’s purse. Could they not see they were lambs being led to the slaughter, so that their blood would run deep and stain the very stonework of Ishgard itself, all for his selfish goals?</p><p>By the time he had caught the attention of the blue bastard, his punishment had been declared and any offer of knighthood for troubled youth shattered; crushed mistletoe in a nobleman's tea was not subtle enough, apparently, and his little follower had ratted him out after getting caught.</p><p>Funny, how he was the one who made it outside of Ishgard’s walls alive, banished from the city, while that little rat could no longer scurry through the Brume and hide behind its walls.</p><p>The Heretics, of course, seemed the next course of action. They wanted to see Ishgard stripped to the bone, the corruption exposed and expunged. Coeur didn’t quite have the same ideals; rather than exposure he sought a throne himself and a city dismantled and rebuilt around him. Nobles were more suited than the Brume than he ever was, weren’t they? They deserved a taste of cruel, bitter cold and smoke that never leaves one’s lungs.</p><p>Charming his way into their company was all for naught, however; their goddess incarnate brushed his shoulder once and she stared through him with frost-colored eyes, seeing through the fog of memories his goals, aspirations, and intentions. He was thrown back out into the cold.</p><p>Fuck Ishgard and fuck the Heretics; Nidhogg’s fire could consume them both.</p><p>Ul’dah was similar, in some aspects. There were vagrants and refugees outside and inside begging for the mercy of the rich merchants or for physical aid in the plight to take back a land once theirs. If he didn’t look at them, he didn’t have to be reminded of nights in the snow and the warmth of a cup of cheap ale in his throat, so he didn’t.</p><p>With decadence came debauchery; Ishgard was far more conservative and private about its own, choosing instead to be deliberately inconspicuous behind masquerade masks or whispers of inappropriate conduct. Ul’dah, on the other hand, flaunted it with their nearly-naked street dancers and colorful silks and garbs.</p><p>It occurred to Coeur then that his beauty was as useful as his sharp mind and tongue; travelers and natives alike would pay to spend an evening indulging in silk sheets and whispered falsities and cruel, demeaning domination when the occasion called for it. He was particularly skilled at doling out punishment and treating those who mewled for it like chocobo shite on his heels. His personality certainly made it an easy task. Coeur settled easily into one the largest whore-houses in the city.</p><p>It was not blood money from revenge on his birthplace he earned there, but it would suffice. It afforded him a warm home and luxuries he would have never had in the castles of snow. For now, it suited his purposes. But he was always looking for more.</p><p>Perhaps it was a joke from Halone herself when his perfect tapestry of a plan started to unfold. A string was plucked, and it started with only a contemptuous side-glance at someone who had so ungraciously sunk into a stool at the bar. Then the tread eased apart bit by bit -- all because he caught sight of a Raen man too intriguing to ignore.</p><p>Perhaps an ice-encased heart wrapped in sharp wire and chains could indeed be unlocked and warmed.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>why i keep writing about my ill-tempered courtesan instead of actually writing about, you know, my warrior of light, is a mystery to me, but i suppose every character will get their origin story eventually.</p><p>maybe you'd like to join <a href="https://discord.gg/VE8Jvhj">the book club;</a> they're a friendly bunch, i promise.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. inquisitive minds</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>a little church mouse runs.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Tutelage under Saint Endalim’s Scholasticate was hardly the first choice for those in Ishgard seeking glory. </p><p>For the noble families, the eldest men inherit house and home; the family’s lineage rests on their shoulders. All offspring belonging to a noble family -- first born or last born, male or female -- were encouraged to seek knighthood; it was one of the greatest honors of Ishgard. Knighthood could preserve a minor noble house or it could break one; outstanding knighthood could raise a brume rat from poverty to wealth.</p><p>Of course it reflected well on the family to have a member in the clergy, but rarely was it one of the direct sons or daughters. Studying the Enchiridion and praising Halone was for the weak-bodied noble children unable to rally beneath a banner, for the intelligent lowborn lacking the constitution for swords and shields, and it was a place for some to be swept under the proverbial rug. An equal opportunity institution it may be, but the noble children tossed into its halls still turned up their noses at the lowborns fortunate enough to find themselves within the warm halls and packed bookshelves.</p><p>Kaisaix didn’t mind being one of the nobles swept under the rug.</p><p>The Ravalis family might as well be vassals of House Dzemael, though they resided higher than the other lesser noble families officially titled such, but Kaisaix’s weak constitution kept him from pursuing the sword in the name of the High House. He was more than happy to bury his nose in books. After all, the Scholasticate taught more than just the religion of the Fury, and he absorbed knowledge like a sponge in a coal-warmed tub. His interests had always been torn between the world outside the stone walls and the history that lay within them. He studied both with equal vigor and earned high marks for his sharp mind. His magic was powerful for a lesser noble chucked unceremoniously into the care of the cathedral, despite the weakness of his lungs. Perhaps the goddess Halone herself blessed him with compensation with a touch meant to both break and mend for nights spent coughing uselessly until his handkerchiefs were stained with red.</p><p>While he preferred to keep to himself, his work was noticed. </p><p>His knowledge of the history of Ishgard, of its High Houses and its deep-rooted religion earned him the attention of recruiters from all levels of the clergy, but it was the Tribunal who pursued him relentlessly, insisting his studies and talents were well-suited to the Supreme Sacred Tribunal of Halonic Inquisitory Doctrine. He was guaranteed a warm room in the lower chambers, a place easier on his health surely, they offered cloying time and time again.</p><p>It was the inquisitors that reside in those chambers, and that was what scared him the most.</p><p>He heard much and said little outside of the cathedral, but he observed twice that amount. He had seen the stirrings in the Brumes. He had witnessed the Temple Knights who slipped out from beneath the virtuous, watchful gaze of the Lord Commander and violated their station. But most of all he had seen them: women, men, and children, none spared the rod as they were dragged to the halls of the Tribunal. Few were seen again and those that did emerge were ragged and worn, haunted. Inquisitors were tasked with uncovering heresy and extracting confessions to be presented before the ruling tribunal and they rarely failed to obtain such confessions.</p><p>A man of his caliber, one that could poison the body as easily as he could cure it away, a man so steeped in history and his studies of the Orthodox’ holy book, would surely make a fine inquisitor.</p><p>Kaisaix did not want to be the reason a child did not see their mother again or the ghost who haunted the men that jumped at shadows as they trudged the snowy streets. The very idea chilled him to the bone.</p><p>So he left.</p><p>He had heard whispers of them before of course: The Scions of the Seventh Dawn, scholars from the late and great Sharlayan nation. Ah, if only the great city remained! He would have fled there to expand his mind. Instead he opted to venture to Mor Dhona, where whispers of the Scions and proof of the remaining sect of the Sons of Saint Coinach awaited, just beyond the rolling ice of Coerthas. It was a dangerous journey for him, but he made it all the same. He thanked Halone regularly for guiding him to the slightly warmer clime, where the biting wind no longer made his lungs feel as brittle as communion cakes. </p><p>Kaisaix did not intend to find his way to the Rising Stones, but the little lalafell woman took his hand and led him into the belly of Seventh Heaven. Something about him caught her eye, though he knows not what even now. It doesn’t matter.</p><p>His interest in the aetheric currents that run through the world at large, the ebb and flow that lives and breathes and connects aetherytes across Eorzea, his fascination with the lands outside the frozen tundra -- it proves useful enough to them to extend a contract of sorts. Data collection for monetary support was a most alluring arrangement. He was but one more eye scouring the land on behalf of the busy, world-saving organization, but it was an important task all the same. A job well done might even earn him favor enough to be counted among them in name and number, he hoped secretly, but even without a spoken promise of that future, the opportunity offered was not one he could reject.</p><p>He left Mor Dhona with gifts; a set of warmer robes to chase away the worst of his cough, his codex weaved with magic that enables more than just combat: infinite pages for notes, easily transferred to any regular leather-bound journal of his choosing for delivery to his employers, and goggles to see for himself the aetheric channels he so desperately wished to study.</p><p>A chance to venture far, far from chambers of screams and tall, gothic spires was worth anything.</p><p>--</p><p>Limsa Lominsa is not the friendliest city-state to his condition due to the cold ocean breezes, but inside his robes he keeps warm enough that he does not mind lingering. It is a hub city of winding paths and bobbing boats with lush farmland and meadows just beyond the city gates. Beautiful and so different from his icy homeland. He does not mind the occasional pluck in his lungs when there is so much to see and jot down in his journal. Visitors journey through often, taking solace in a city built by noble pirates, where race and politics don’t seem to matter to the extent of Gridana and Ul’dah. It is refreshing, and it provides him with much material to study.</p><p>The downside of his stay in the city is, though only sanctioned piracy on the seas is permitted, the streets aren’t completely devoid of petty crooks and thieves, no matter how hard the Yellowjackets work to preserve order. Even in a city where the discrepancy between rich and poor is slim, there are always those who fight tooth and nail to survive.</p><p>And that’s how he finds himself missing the silver relic of his homeland, awash in the glow of blue candles that kept his pages bright within the cathedral walls past curfew, and reforged by the Scions’ purpose they generously gifted to him. It is a piece of himself, gone without a trace, and he desperately seeks to reclaim it, no matter the cost.</p><p>A thief with an eye for detail just happens to notice a frantic little church mouse looking for a valuable lost, and something silver gleams from the flap of his knapsack. </p><p>Perhaps Halone’s sense of humor is a bit twisted afterall.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>yet again, not about my wol but one of his distant connections</p><p>seem to be developing a habit of eluding to their significant others at the end, but eh.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
</body>
</html>